Silent Hill: Darkness of Faith
by Mr. Pants
Summary: In the cold fog, he finds himself questioning his own sanity as his mother's dying request quickly becomes a maddening descent into hell. She'd once blamed herself for exposing her son to darkness, but the truth lay deep within that town. . . Silent Hill.
1. No Rest for the Wicked

A/N: Before you begin to read my humble fanfiction, I feel it's worth noting the pronunciation of the main character's name; Chet = Shea. Now that it's clearly stated, I do hope you'll enjoy!

_ The small flame atop a hastily melting candle flickered in the darkness, sending shadows dancing around the room. He saw her gyrating on the floor, eyes rolled back to expose only the whites. Even as her mouth moved, he heard only laboured breathing and smelled the metallic odour of fresh blood. Her body continued to sway in the dim light, the shadows dancing around them mimicking her movements._

_ They crept in on him, sending a deep chill up his spine when she stopped, eye whites still exposed. A halfhearted grin spread across her mocha cheeks, just barely showing off her aging teeth. She beckoned toward him slowly as the candle began to flicker rapidly, her rosary pendant shimmering. He crept forward timidly, cautiously rounding the doorway with tears stinging in his eyes._

_ She scooped up a small wooden bowl from the floor just before her and swilled it around, swaying back and forth as she did so. It was only now he could see the full scene before him; she sat in the middle of a large circle filled with messy X marks, beside a lackluster blade and to his right a bloodstained cloth was draped over something figure-like._

_ "Don't be afraid, my son." She spoke bitterly, crooked smile unwavering, her hand outstretched. He grabbed her clammy hand and shuddered as it closed around his own. Her smile faded and she jerked him closer, his shoulder screaming in protest and the sharp pain of her nails burning into his skin. Her grip tightened as her smile returned._

_ "I won't hurt you."_

_ He shut his eyes tightly as the blade dug into his flesh._

Chapter 1

No Rest for the Wicked

Chet grimaced as he felt the burning tailpipe of his old motorcycle graze his jeans. The intersection ahead of him was completely empty, a far cry from the days prior, and he took this moment to find his bearings. He ignored the traffic light ahead, reading from the small crumpled map he'd draped across the steering column. Chet reveled in the eerie quiet of the open road with a soft smile. _'Thank God. . . The traffic back in Portland was bad.'_

He stuffed the map away and revved up the engine of his rickety yellow motorcycle, fighting to keep it steady as it roared down the road just as the traffic light shone red. He didn't care anymore. He was too tired to even try to care. _'Fourteen-Hundred miles. . . .'_ Far too long a trip for anyone to make, in his opinion, and the fact that he'd chosen to make the trip on the old bike he'd borrowed from Artemis made it seem even longer.

Chet sighed. At least it'd be over soon.

The scenery was monotonous, just tree after tree, one after the other in a never ending cycle. The repetition set up a lonely atmosphere that was unsettlingly intensified by the light mist of late autumn and the dismal skies above. The silence was far removed from the controlled chaos of each city Chet had passed through, such as Jackson, Chattanooga, Boston and Portland.

In the distance, through the light mist that danced in the breeze, he saw the welcome sign. "Silent Hill." He said aloud, half smiling.

He watched the sign seem to grow larger as he approached, marveling at the rustic beauty of it. . . when something caught his attention from the corner of his eye. Taking a risk, he looked to his right and saw nothing but a thinning forest perched on a sloping foothill. Chiding himself, he returned his attention to the road ahead of him when the old motorcycle backfired, sending a jolt throughout the metal frame.

The steering column jerked away from his grip and sent the bike into a fish tail, its engine falling silent. He tipped to the side and fell against the damp grasses, helmet knocking into the earth hard enough for him to see stars. The pain was sharp, radiating outward in throbbing pulses, but dulled as he finally stopped rolling. He clutched his stomach, sick with anxiety, overwhelmed by the pain. He ignored the vicious wail of the motorcycle's metal against asphalt, rolling to his hands and knees.

Chet looked ahead, trembling from the burst of adrenaline, following with his eyes the dingy yellow trail of paint his bike had transferred to the road. The back wheel slowly came to a rest, smoke wafting from the tailpipe, awash with the scent of burnt motor oil. He pulled his helmet off, running a hand over his beanie cap, cursing silently. _'What the hell just happened?' _Stretching his shoulder to quell the deep ache, he stomped towards his bike. He looked around slowly before pulling the motorcycle to a standing position, grimacing at the scratched paint and broken mirror.

_'Hello seven years of even worse luck. . . .'_

Turning the ignition, the bike struggled to start, and after a few tries, Chet gave up. He kicked the front tire and sighed, pulling his map out of the storage compartment. He unfolded it and draped it over the steering column, tracing the road towards town with his index finger. Gazing down the road he could just barely see the first buildings of Silent Hill through the mist.

Sighing inwardly, he thought back to when Artemis begged him not to leave, tried to convince him he'd become tangled in a fool's errand. Chet had simply told the man the trip was 'important'. . . now he wasn't so sure, staring at the scrapes and cuts lining his rugged hands. _'No,'_ he thought. _'Dwelling on the past ain't gonna help.'_

Taking hold of the steering column, Chet pulled it forward, marching toward the buildings down the way. His mind was cloudy, thoughts jumbled together, ignoring the creeping sensation of dread the had began tugging at him. After a short while, he arrived at the building, leaving his bike in the middle of the empty parking lot. The parking lot was old and dirty, covered in dead leaves and garbage and the small building nearby smelled of sewage.

Disused public restrooms, he'd figured.

A line of payphones by the entrances of the restrooms caught his eye and he nodded. "I could call a mechanic. . . ." He muttered. "The trip must'a taken a toll on the bike." He grabbed up the first receiver, replacing it after a beat when he heard no dial tone. After trying the other two phones, he groaned in frustration. All lines were dead. And the reason why was in plain view, right at his feet.

He leaned over, his heart sinking when he was close enough to see the thick metal wiring that lead toward the telephone poles was severed. He examined the damaged metal, running his hands along the frigid piping, feeling of the rough burrs that lined each jagged edge. It was then he noticed the dirt and blood that covered his hands from the numerous nicks and abrasions that lined his palms.

He shook his head, pushing through the worn out door and into the restroom. Eyes wide, he frowned; the room was in deplorable condition. Water stains covered the acoustic tile ceiling, grit and grime covered the floor, the walls seemed to be falling apart and a foul stench similar to rotting fruit lingered in the air. It was almost nauseating. Indeed the facilities had been in a state of disuse for some time.

The florescent lights above flickered and buzzed, giving the room a strange edge to it. Chet fought the urge to gag and turned on the water faucet, watching as the sienna-tinged water sprayed out and filled the slowly draining sink well. When the water ran clear, he held his dirty, bloodied hands beneath the gentle stream and washed the filth away, enjoying the cool water against his skin. The nagging sensation of dread crept up in his gut again as he watched his own blood swirl down the drain.

Chet turned the faucet off, running his damp hands over his face. The pipes in the walls creaked and groaned as the pressure shifted, filling the room with a chilling sound that wrapped around him like some creeping cocoon. The sound closed in and suddenly the room felt claustrophobic, and he backed out, pushing the door open with his shoulder. Silence once again filled his ears and he relaxed, exhaling a breath he hadn't known he was holding―

The payphone nearest him shrieked to life, obliterating the dead silence.

Chet recoiled, backing into a small garbage bin that tipped over, clattering noisily as it rolled away, the payphones still ringing out. _'There's no way in hell. . . .'_ He trembled, reaching out slowly._ 'I checked the lines.' _The tightening in his chest only allowed for rapid shallow breaths as his heart rate increased. With hands trembling, he took an uneasy step forward, pulling the dirty receiver from its cradle, silencing the piercing shrieks. He raised it up to his ear, listening closely to the fuzzy static noises that filled the speaker.

"It's good to know you've finally arrived, Chet." The voice was cold and taunting, almost inhuman in its subtlety. . . yet it seemed familiar. Chet wanted to say a million things but just couldn't, instead listening to the sound of the caller striking a match. "What's the matter, Mister Seymour? Can't speak? Your mother would be ashamed to know you're treating an old friend so rudely."

"Who the fuck is this?" Chet questioned harshly, his grip steadily tightening.

"Such. . . vulgarity. Valeria would roll over in her grave."

Chet's stomach turned, like a vicious kick to the gut. Who the hell was this? How did he know Valeria's name? He man was still trembling, far too terrified and angry to even speak. The caller laughed coldly. "I apologize, Mister Seymour, but I must be off. Things to do, people to make suffer, so little time." The caller cleared his throat before adding; "Oh, and do be sure to send the girl my well wishes. Ta-Ta!"

A sharp tone tore out of the receiver. . . then silence engulfed the line.

He punched in some random numbers, but the phone stayed quiet. His brow furrowed. How had the man been able to call if the lines were down– more importantly, how did he know about Valeria? They were questions he just couldn't answer. _'Maybe I imagined it. I just hit my head too hard, that's all.' _He wanted to believe it, but there was no point in trying to convince himself otherwise; it was too real.

He tried his damnedest to push it to the back of his mind, but try as he did, he was failing. He shook his head, picking up the old directory tethered to the payphone and flipped through its faded, yellowing pages, searching for a mechanic's address. After flipping through most of the book, he came across a page with a listing encircled by a messy red line. He held it closer to read and sneered. "E&K Towing and Repairs. . . . Conveniently located all the way across town." He dropped the book, shoving away from the payphones.

_ 'Just my fuckin' luck. . . .'_

Fishing the map out of his bike's storage compartment, he pulled the keys from the ignition, slipping both into the inner pocket of his coat. He stared out across the parking lot and watched as the fog seemed to grow thicker, parting now and then just enough for Chet to see the dark lake below. He sighed. If his estimates were correct, it'd take at least two hours to walk around to the other side of town, and with that in mind, he set off, skin crawling as he began his walk.

He'd neglected to notice the foreboding tunnel the road ran through and made his way inside, amazed at how his footsteps echoed down the walls. It was dark, nearly pitch black as he left the entrance, but at the far end he could see light. With the fog steadily thickening, the light was dim at best, seeming to glow with a dreamy haze, but down deep in the pit of his stomach, he felt anxious. . . there was something waiting for him.

_ 'Don't be dumb. You're just being paranoid, grow the hell up.'_

He finally emerged, but still couldn't shake the anxiety, and he inattentively looked back at the tunnel. Chet stopped in his tracks, staring into the darkness of the tunnel. He couldn't see the other side. Not even the faintest hint of light; the tunnel was as dark as night. Shaking his head, he ignored it, pushing on down the empty road.

The only sound came from his footsteps, the quiet patter of his soles echoing throughout the fog. As the minutes ticked by, the reticence of the world around him persisted, footfalls the only evidence of life. He passed over a small road that wound its way towards the south, marked by a sign post that read 'Wiltse Road'.

He checked his map again, relieved to see that he was almost in South Vale, Silent Hill. Moments later, the first of the buildings came into view, but Chet noticed something was strange about it. The outer facade was dingy and dirty, flecks of aged paint chipping away. He neared the windows and peered inside, seeing nothing but darkness. He tried the door, but to his disdain, it didn't budge. The view of the buildings clustered together was odd in that it seemed so mundane, yet almost sinister. A duplicate image from a darkened mirror. . . .

Chet rounded the corner and was surprised to see the road was blocked. A tall, wooden barricade stood before him, topped with ringlets of barbed wire and a detour sign pointing away. The orange pylons at the base were dirty and faded, covered in a thick grime, obviously having been there for some time. Crossing the street, he came to a tall brick building, marked as 'South Silent Hill Fire Station' by a corroded metal plaque.

The front of the fire station was in much the same condition as the first building, and each of its three heavy-looking shuttered were down, rusted shut. The windows were covered in thick steel bars, and were too filthy to inside of. He groaned. _'This town's a real shit hole.'_ He tried the entrance door, but it too was locked. What time was it, anyway, he wondered.

"Where's everyone? Is it some kinda holiday?" He thought out loud, scanning the area slowly.

"I was wondering that myself."

The young voice caught him off guard, standing the hairs of his neck on end. A few meters ahead, a figure emerged from behind an obscured wall jutting out from what seemed to be a church. As the person neared, Chet could see her young curves and weak smile from behind her dark strands of bangs. She nervously held her arms crossed, breaking her stance to smooth out her hair. "Sorry," she said softly. "I didn't mean to scare you. . . ." She tilted her head to the side with a shrug.

"Nah, it's fine." Chet returned the smile, puzzled as the girl's expression quickly changed.

"Hey, mister. You're bleeding!" Eyes wide, she leaned forward, pointing at him. "You okay?"

Chet wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, nodding. "I'm good. I just had an. . . 'accident' on my bike back at the observation place back that way."

She nodded empathetically. "You need to call someone, mister. . . . What's your name?"

"Chet. Just call me Chet, 'cause 'mister' makes me feel real old. . . but, yeah." He held the back of his neck, rubbing the sore muscles. "I'd like to call the repair shop. Tried at the observation place, but the phones were out. . . ."

She nodded back toward the way she'd come from, turning on her heel. "There's a phone in the chapel Office, I think." Glancing back behind her, she added; "My name is Karin, by the way." She strutted away, Chet inadvertently noticing the exaggerated sway of her hips. Something was strange about this excitable girl, he noted– following closely behind her.

The front of the church was easily forgettable, almost completely lackluster apart from the unique cross atop the steeple and the ornate engraving of 'Saint Stella'. The weathered doors groaned against their hinges as Karin pushed them aside, closing them behind Chet. She brushed passed him, pushing another hair behind an ear. "The office is over here."

The uncomfortable looking wooden church pews that lined the center aisle were all caked in a thick layer of dust. Hymn books lie strewn across the dirtied floor, pages yellow and curling from age and neglect. Karin walked to the left of a ceiling-high altar adorned with a marble statuette of a woman in a robe. Chet stared it down as he walked passed and nearly shuddered at the hollow look of its sunken in eyes. Karin leaned against the wall near an open doorway with a soft smile. "The phone's in there, Chet."

He nodded toward her, smiling as he pulled his beanie-cap off, running a hand over the stubbly hairs that were growing across his scalp. "Thank ya." Karin shrugged slowly as he walked into the office. The desk within was messy, covered in old papers and religious study books, and beneath the mess he saw an old rotary phone. He chuckled as he grabbed the receiver, turning back toward the doorway. "Used to have one of these when I was a kid."

Karin peeked inside, raising a brow. "Nostalgic are we, huh?"

"Son of a _bitch_." Chet slammed the receiver against the table with a growl, shaking his head with disgust. "Are all the goddamn phones in town out?" Chet propped against the desk, not bothering to clear away the dusty papers when he felt a light grip on his bicep.

"Chet, honey. . . the fog outside is so thick you can practically cut it. Someone may have had a car accident, hit a line?" Karin let go and walked to a nearby window, seeing next to nothing through the filthy glass.

"That's true, I guess." He crossed his arms in the midst of his reply, scowl barely fading.

Karin looked over her shoulder, turning her head just enough to see Chet from the corner of her eye. Laying a hand against the cold glass, she sighed. "I guess we're walking then, Chet."


	2. Find Evil

Chapter 2

Find Evil

Karin brushed a pale hand over the back of her head for the umpteenth time as Chet followed behind, bemused at her odd demeanor. Chet dreaded their long trek across town even more as he watched Karin, no more than a few feet away, quickly fading into the fog. She stopped, turning to face him as he descended the stone steps of the church with a coy smile. "There's something I need to ask you," she said softly. "I need a _favour_." She lightly bit at her lips, turning them cherry red– a stark contrast to the cool monochromes surrounding them.

"I'm looking for a woman– a friend. Thought she'd be here, but she's not. . . ."

"I'll help look for her," he said with a grin. "But first, I need to get to the repair shop."

Her coy smile grew even wider and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close. "Thanks so much, Chet. I'll. . . _'repay'_ you somehow," she let go, hand over her heart. "Promise."

Chet just shook his head, studying the map in his hands. "Don't worry 'bout it." He rapped on the paper with a finger, glancing to Karin and back again as he spoke. "Any idea where your friend is?" The girl faced him, pacing backward carefully as Chet tucked the map back safely in his coat pocket.

"Well, she's real religious– a minister I think. . . but she isn't at St. Stella. . . ." She trailed off, stopping short. "Meg could be at the Town Center for like a meeting or something, 'cause she runs a halfway house in Brahms. . . ." She narrowed her gaze, peering around Chet. "It's the next town. . . over. . . ." She froze in place with a soft gasp, eyes wide. He saw the intense fear on her face and turned around slowly, cursing under his breath.

Through the dense fog, about three or four meters away, a dark shadow lurched forward with unsure steps. As it drew closer, Chet could see its vague canine-like body that shook with each heavy step, thick paws slapping wetly against the pavement. It trotted towards them, revealing more and more of its grotesque body. The gaping wound on its stomach was slicked with a dark, viscous liquid; the very sight of this alone was enough to make Chet choke down vomit. It was near hairless, but its mangy skin was reminiscent of a brindle pit bull. Lateral stripes of discolored flesh wrapped around its body from tail to head.

This wasn't a dog, Chet thought. Couldn't be.

And then he nearly pissed himself.

_Its head wasn't even on right_– it was twisted ninety degrees on its side, a beady eye on either side of its demented excuse for jaws. A growl came from the ghastly hound, shaking its flesh. Pale jowls parted backward and revealed razor sharp, rotting teeth with multiple rows, rivaling even the fiercest great white. The pungent stink of rot and death invaded their noses and Karin recoiled, hand over her face. She stifled a gag.

The thing howled, sending a jolt of panic through Chet as it knelt to the ground, bony legs trembling with anticipation. Chet pushed Karin aside as the hound leaped through the air with a chilling screech. It slammed into him, both falling harshly against the pavement. He cursed and kicked at the thing as he tried to stand, sending it onto its side.

It quickly pounced to its feet, turning its attention to Karin. Chet scrambled on his hands and knees, grabbing at the hind quarters of the beast. "Karin, run!" He urged, wrestling the hound away as Karin bolted off down the street, quickly fading into the fog. Chet growled in pain and frustration as he felt the sharp crush of jaws clenching across his forearm.

"Get the fuck off!" He slurred, trying to shake free. The taste of fresh blood just threw the hound into a more intense frenzy as it whined and growled, still latched onto Chet. The fiery pain only increased the longer its teeth were buried in his arm, and with all of his strength, he kicked at its chest with both feet. With a satisfying crunch beneath his sneakers, the thing yelped, falling backward, wet flesh slapping the ground.

Chet stood quickly, kicking at the downed beast again. It yelped and scurried away down a cramped alleyway, haggard tail tucked between its frail looking legs.

Recovering from the shock of the sudden attack, Chet stared down the alleyway for a little longer. As he dropped his arms to his sides, he snapped back to his senses at the electrical sensation of pain from the crook of his elbow. He winced, rolling back the sleeve of his coat. Dozens of scratches lined his arm, but at the center of the reddening marks were the punctures of canine teeth.

He firmly wrapped his hand around the bleeding wounds and took a shaky step forward. "Karin!" Chet called into the empty fog, scanning back and forth for the girl. "Karin! Are ya there?" The quiet, muffled echo of his own voice was the only answer. Picking up the pace to a light jog, he continued down the road marked as 'Nathan Avenue'.

Through the fog ahead, something dark and wide on the road caught his attention. He slowed down, cautiously stepping forward as the soft sounds of crumbling rock and earth filled his ears. His breath caught in his throat, eyes growing wide. The road just seemed to end, edges uneven and fragile, as if the road had been swallowed by a gargantuan sinkhole. All he felt was a disconnected sense of bewilderment at the menacing sight.

He leaned over the edge, gasping when he couldn't see the bottom. On either side of him, the utility poles and wires trailed down into the void, lifeless as could be. To his left was a building marked as 'Silent Hill Savings Bank' that seemed to span the gap, but with the entrance a good ten feet away from the edge of the void, Chet's chances of using it to reach the other side fell apart. "Karin. . . ." He trailed off.

Realization dawned in his eyes and he dropped to his knees, calling down into the void. "KARIN! KARIN ARE YOU DOWN THERE? ARE YOU HURT?" He trembled with fear and anxiety as the silence was unbroken between his calls. The blood from the punctures and scratches on his arm slowly dribbled from between his fingers, staining the faded asphalt a deep ruby red. He ignored the warm stickiness of his own blood, straining to see into the hole.

Had Karin even gone this direction, he wondered? He couldn't remember clearly no matter how hard he tried. His mind was swimming, no, DROWNING in the literal and metaphorical fog he was stranded in. With a final sweep of the site before him, he backed away, hoping for Karin's sake that she'd been wise enough to head off on another path.

The only direction he could take now was the way he'd just come from and another road beside St. Stella Church. He broke into a sprint, reaching the church in just seconds, but as he turned down the next street marked 'Neely Street', another obstacle blocked his path. A barricade much like the first he'd seen hindered progress further. A dusty canvas sheet was strung up behind the barricade, covered in messy graffiti that was mirrored– obviously bleeding through from the other side.

In his haste, he hadn't bothered to get a good look at it, but the words 'WHORE' and 'SINNER' caught his eye.

Panic coursed through his veins, but he forced himself to keep some kind of calm. The pain in his arm was still strong, though, calling attention to his wounds. _'If I don't do something about my arm soon. . . .'_ He thought quietly, before finishing aloud, "Might make things worse."

He pushed his way back inside of the church, ignoring the groans of the doors as he looked around the near Gothic chapel. For a brief moment he considered ripping the cloth from an altar to stop the bleeding, but decided against it because of the sheer amount of filth that had built up on it. He reentered the office, scanning around the room once more.

Smiling with relief as he saw a white metal case with a red cross mounted to the wall, he rushed over. Chet pulled it from the hooks of the wall and dropped it onto the desk, flipping it open. The only items inside of the tarnishing case were a small bottle of disinfectant, an equally small package of gauze wrap, compact flashlight and a health drink. He absentmindedly wiped his uninjured bloody hand against his jeans before opening the disinfectant.

Not wanting to prolong the inevitable pain, he liberally doused his arm with the clear and pungent liquid, clenching his jaw shut tightly as the pain grew white hot. Even as the intense pain continued, he wrapped the wounds in gauze, applying just enough pressure to control the bleeding. With eyes closed he tilted his head back, breaths deep and slow. The pain began to fade, replaced with an intense warmth that spread from his fingertips upward. For just a few fleeting seconds, he grinned darkly, relieved at the sensation.

Chet slipped the slim health drink into the outer pocket of his coat, opening his eyes to see the gauze being stained red. Shaking his head, he glanced back down at the desk, closing the first aid case– when he saw the rosary beads lying atop a heavy looking book. Snatching them up from their resting spot, he held them at eye level, gawking at the familiar sight. Memories of his mother counting the beads as she prayed, pausing to shoot him a smile, flooded his mind.

Something was strange about them, but he wasn't sure what. He gripped the beads in his hand, running them over his fingers as he watched the silver crucifix dangle in the pale light of the room. In the center was a single small sapphire gemstone. Then it hit him like a tonne of bricks.

It was his mother's rosary pendant. The pendant she'd been buried with.

But how could that–

His thoughts were interrupted as a shrill cry cut through the air. The scream was of a young woman, and it sounded close. Chet slipped the rosary around his neck and bounded off toward the direction of the scream, nearly tripping over his own feet when the scream erupted again, stunned by disbelief. It came from his left.

Through the altar.


	3. Enter Hell

Chapter 3

Enter Hell

He waited. For an eternity it seemed, he waited, not bothering to even breathe. Chet had his ear pressed up against the cold stone facade of the altar, before finally knocking against it with his battered knuckles. It echoed hollowly. "Hello?" He slammed another fist against is as he called out hoarsely.

Before he had a chance to call out again, another scream cut through the air, muddled by the thick wood and stone of the altar. Another rush of adrenaline surged through his veins while he trudged ahead, awkwardly leaning against the altar. As he rounded the corner, the hardwood floor stepped down onto a lush red carpet. Chet marveled at what he saw; thousands of small and incredibly detailed carvings lined the back of the shrine, all seeming to tell a story of some sort.

He mentally slapped himself, angered that he'd become distracted at a time like this. Pressing against the wooden backing, he tried to find some way to gain entrance. Grabbing hold of the edges, he pulled, pushed and prodded, but it stayed put. He cursed under his breath, kicking at the bottom of the altar, a hollow echo resounding. Three rounded carvings toward the center stood out, and he traced over them lightly with his fingertips.

They gave way under his touch, sinking into the surrounding carvings. He recoiled, the carvings returning to their positions with a dull 'click'. He looked closer at the three, seeing strange symbols that had been burned into them, each with a subtle color variation. The center was of a pale ashen color, the left a deep rosy red, and the right a saturated yellow. Each seemed to have a special meaning, but he was at a loss. But. . . there was some odd sense of familiarity to them.

Chet turned on his heel, looking around for some kind of sign, something to let him open the pathway. Through the dim light filtering in through filthy stained glass windows, nothing stood out. Except the brilliant colours dulled by a thick layer of dust. He gawked at the large reredos painting hidden within the shadows of the alcove, amazed at the sheer size of the artwork. As he stared at the filth encrusted painting, forms and shapes began to come together. It was a sinister scene.

The painting was reminiscent of Rembrandt, but the slight similarities were offset by an unsettling atmosphere. An angelic woman betrothed in white cloth stood in the middle, holding a reed and a serpent in either hand, face devoid of emotion. Darkness was swilled at her feet, and to her left was a figure draped in red linens, face obscured. The cloth seemed to be made of blood. To the right of the woman in white was another figure, draped in yellow linen. The yellow cloth seemed to be made of decay. The painting almost seemed alive in an unholy way.

A cold creeping sense of dread washed over him. He shivered.

Beneath the figures there was a tarnished plaque, ornately inscribed with what Chet partially recognized for Latin. _'Candidus Dei. Cruentus Vitae. Croceus Mortis.'_ The elegant script was followed by the numerals _I, II_ and _III_ respectively. The nagging sense of familiarity kept him transfixed on the word _'Dei'_, but the reason why was unclear. . . until the answer was whispered gently in his ear. The cold pricks and stabs of fear caressed his flesh as the faint voice spoke again.

_"White God. . . ."_

A tear stung in his eye.

_"Red Life."_

That voice. . . It couldn't be. . . .

_"Yellow Death."_

"Momma?" Chet turned to face the voice, but saw nothing but a dry-rotting wall hidden in the shadows, paint chips collecting upon the carpet. The man felt ill and faint as he tried to think clearly, stumbling back toward the altar. As he trembled and shook, he took hold of the edge of the altar to steady himself, staring coldly at the three middle carvings.

Looking closely at the carvings once more, he fingered at the ashen one before depressing it. It sank into the altar slowly, a faint 'click' resounding. He realized he was taking too long and quickly pressed the red carving. It mimicked the first, giving another faint 'click'. Without sparing another moment, he pushed the yellow, but it resisted. He pressed harder and a much louder click echoed through the chapel.

Distant mechanical noises churned and the altar shook, showering dust upon the carpet as it began to sink into the floor. It lurched downward with with a sudden drop, revealing a dark cavernous staircase that never seemed to end. The smell of earthen decay and acrid smoke poured out of the opened corridor and a fresh burst of anxiety rushed over Chet. Had Karin been taken down beneath the chapel?

Had he taken too long– was he too late?

He didn't have time to ponder the answers and instead bounded down the stairs, using the splintering handrail for support as he stumbled down into the darkness. The walls were cold and damp, covered in odorous mildew and cobwebs, but he knew the bottom was near. The sounds of his sneakers slapping the damp stone echoed less and less with every leap and bound, and finally he reached the bottom.

Feeling along the walls of the darkened hallway, he slogged ahead, fighting the terror that was taking over. A faint orange glow came from the end of the hallway, flickering like the dance of a flame. Over the sound of his plodding footsteps, something caught his attention. He stopped short, listening closely as the sound returned.

It was a woman's voice.

"Only through suffering can we know true happiness. . . God thanks you for your sacrifice and I weep for your pain."

Chet slowed his pace and rounded the corner and suppressed a shout as the wrinkled face of a woman appeared before him. The sadistic smile on her obscured face sent a deep chill up Chet's spine, and even beneath the dense fabric of her robe, her gaze burned into him. In the near silence of the corridor, he could hear the pops and crackles of a dying fire and nothing more. Only the lower half of her face was visible beneath the hood of the heavy looking robe swathed over her figure. Her chapped lips parted, revealing dark-stained teeth as she spoke.

"You're the one _he_ mentioned. . . ."

Chet peered around the woman and in the farthest corner of the room he could see a figure draped beneath a blood-soaked cloth. The woman held up her hand and shook her head. "There's no point checking her, my son. For she has passed. . . ."

"What happened to her?"_ Oh God, is that. . . ._

"It's God's will, son. Do not question it."

Her cold voice was unsettling, almost ghostly. Had she been the one to kill the girl? Or was it something like the dog-creature? "God has something in store for you. . . " She gracefully pushed past him, adding; "but you probably already knew that." Chet reached out, grabbing her arm through the downy fabric of the robe, grip firm.

"Wait a minute, what happened? Who is she-" The woman spun around, slapping his hand away.

"Unhand me you filthy wretch!" She pointed a bloody finger at him, jabbing it into the air. "How dare you try to stop the judgment of mankind's wickedness." She backed away slowly, still pointing accusingly. "God _WILL_ punish you for your sins." The woman backed away before breaking into a graceful run down the corridor, fading into the darkness.

Chet swallowed a hard lump in his throat. As much as he wanted to question the woman, to run away and not look back. . . he knew he had to check the body. It had to be done. Guided across the darkened room with the dim light of an oil lamp in the corner, he approached the body. The dying flame sent irregular shadows dancing around the room, doing little to actually light Chet's way. As he pushed further into the room, rubbing his hands against the frigid, tool-scarred walls, the pungent scent of blood once again filled the air. With each step it grew stronger.

Hesitantly, he let his gaze wander from the scratched, uneven stone floors to the dark wall ahead of him and with one swift motion, he tore the bloody cloth away.

It was human, but at first glance seemed grossly alien. The deep red of exposed muscle, sinew and pale fat glistened in the dim light as the figure slumped against her rope restraints. Blood dripped from her motionless limbs and dribbled down the sickly yellow adipose tissue of both breasts. Chet felt weak at the knees and the urge to vomit slowly becoming overwhelming– but the ghastly sight had him entranced.

_No skin. It's gone now._

Deep, uneven gashes lined the strained muscles of the corpse, with stained bones shining from beneath. Her spilled blood pooled beneath her, flowing between the cracks in the floor. Chet tried to ignore the distant, listless gaze from her lidless eyes peering past him, frozen in agony. A charred scrap of paper soaked in the pooling blood, slowly drifting toward the wall.

To the right of the flayed victim stood a proud looking statue of a woman, her arms outstretched. Hanging loosely from the worn, scratched arms was a pale burlap sheet covered in deep crimson stains. Blood dripped from the rough cloth in a steady rhythm, echoing in the stillness of the room. Chet stepped back, away from the grizzly display, his head reeling when a faint sound caught his attention–

It was the distant wail of an air raid siren.

A cold pressure began to engulf his chest as the lamp's flame flickered, threatening to extinguish from some unfelt breeze. He struggled to pull in a deep breath and gagged on the stench of blood and mildew. He turned on his heel and sprinted for the corridor as the fire finally died out, plunging the underground chamber into pitch darkness.

He fumbled along the corridor, feeling his way toward the staircase, fighting the terror that was gnawing at the back of his mind. He pulled himself up the slick stairs, each step shaky and unsure while the wailing grew louder with each pounding heartbeat that coursed through his veins. Seeing the dim light of the chapel above him, he launched himself forward, tumbling to a stop against the dusty velvet carpeting.

Quickly he arose, covering his ears with eyes shut tight to try and escape the incessant shrill cries of the siren. As the seconds ticked by, the sound began to slowly fade. Chet relaxed, letting his arms rest at his hips– but something was stranger still. As he slowly opened his eyes, the light struggling to filter in through the filthy windows began to fade. His mouth hung loosely, watching while the darkness crept forward, almost coming to life in the growing shadows.

The furthest recesses of the shadows seemed to creep and crawl as the siren finally faded away. Chet knew if he didn't think of something quickly, he'd be stranded where he stood thanks to the darkness. Feeling the slim drink in his coat pocket, he remembered the small flashlight that was still in the office, nestled in the tarnishing metal case. He rushed to the desk, snatching up the smooth penlight just as the darkness filled the room, plunging Chet into a cold, suffocating void.

His grip tightened, knuckles white when he felt the unmistakable touch of a child's hands groping at his legs. With a holler, he slid the side switch up, illuminating the path ahead of him. The room was empty. Chet reluctantly walked forward and into the chapel, shivering at the near deafening silence. The roof of the chapel groaned and settled, sending dust raining down on Chet. He shook it away from his face and gazed up at the ceiling to see what had happened.

The paint on the ceiling and support beams was cracking and peeling away before his eyes, gently drifting to the floor. The sound of shattering glass joined in the cacophony of the unsettling noises wrapping around him. He bolted out of the church as the stained glass windows fell apart, sending sharp fragments onto the wooden church pews.

Throwing the doors shut behind him, he slid down to the ground, breathing erratic. "It's gotta be a dream." He said aloud, trying to convince himself he was delusional, trying to ignore crashes and shatters around him. "There ain't no fuckin' way this shit's real." He pleaded silently with himself to wake up, to come back to reality as a cold sweat drenched his skin. Only the more he wished to be wrong, and the more he cursed the world around him, the more he knew deep in his heart–

It was all too real. This was hell.


	4. Search

Chapter 4

Search

Staring down the deeply shadowed steps at his feet, Chet had lost all sense of time. Each beat of his heart that noisily thudded in his ears had even faded into the darkness that enveloped him. The darkness that had enveloped the town, inside and out. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he knew he should keep moving, to help Karin- but his body just wouldn't obey.

Never once before had he been paralyzed by such fear.

It was then a thought struck him; Karin was probably feeling the same way. In an instant, he'd hauled himself upright, a white knuckle grip once again on the slender flashlight. He swept the beam down the steps and onto the street which had taken on a much darker hue from the thick layer of filth and soot that lined the expanse. Using the stone banister for support, he pushed forward, trying to form cohesive thoughts amidst the chaos of panic.

Only one thought came through loud and clear. _'Find her- Find Karin and find her real fast.'_ Chet nodded, hurrying off in the last direction he'd seen Karin running toward. He barely paid mind to the few empty buildings he passed along the short jog to the sinkhole and sighed inwardly. There was no way she'd been able to cross. Kicking a crumbling pebble into the void, he remembered the small, dank alleyway the dog-creature had retreated into.

It was narrow, almost too tiny to fit in a standard business sized garbage bin, but it was the only path that looked promising. He darted the light from side to side, keeping an eye peeled for signs of movement, and silently praying his fears wouldn't come to pass. As he rounded a sharp corner coated in a thick mess of mildew and other unpleasant growths, he realized it came to a sudden dead end with no outlet.

Chet turned around and for just a moment, he relished the sense of relief, staring down an open door. The door squeaked on its under-oiled brass hinges and he stepped inside of a barren storage room. Metal shelves were rusting against the damp floor, the air suffocating and stale. He deftly stepped around a broken florescent light fixture that dangled loosely by a handful of electrical wires, trying to make as little noise as possible.

The next doorway leading out of the room had no door, obviously having been removed long before. He walked in to the room, checking his surroundings for any signs of life, but found none amongst the countless rusty cages that lined the floor. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he tried to ignore the humid stench of old pet droppings and dried urine. The simple site of all the empty cages, covered in corroded flecks with doors wide open would have been unsettling enough alone; the putrefied stench just made it that much worse.

He scanned the light over the room, paying no mind the crunch of aquarium glass beneath his shoes, looking for anything that could be of use. . . when a small box of gleaming metal objects fell beneath the light. Stepping over to the counter, he grabbed a small red and green box, bewildered to find it was full of nine millimeter handgun ammunition. He ran a finger over the dusty bullets, counting them quietly, noting there were eighteen cases.

Chet dumped the bullets into his pocket without so much as a second thought; if he found a pistol, he'd make easy work of the dog-creature for sure.

Apart from molded bags of dog food spilled upon the floor, the store was barren, as if it had been suddenly abandoned years before. He shook his head, realizing how unlikely that would have been– but hadn't the whole situation been unlikely? The front of the storeroom near the display window was less cluttered apart from a stack of cages, and the sturdy looking plywood walls that had been erected over the windows seemed almost like a recent addition.

He knew time was still of the essence, and jogged to the door, arms outstretched to push it open–

And he slammed roughly into the locked door, metal handlebar digging into his already sore ribs. The pain was only slight, just enough to remind him how lucky he'd been to avoid a more serious accident. . . and just enough to remind him just how close he'd come to dying. Twice. "C'mon. . . ." He said quietly, sighing in despair.

"Where's the fuckin' lock at. . . ." He felt of the metal door frame, knowing that his search was only futile. The door actually lacked a lock from what he could see. . . yet it wouldn't– _couldn't _open. He kicked at the bottom half of the door and gasped when his foot simply went right through it. . . .

_'Wait. . .! No, that's a doggy door. A way out.'_ He dropped to his knees, pants dampening against the dirty floor, pushing a loose board of wood away. The pet door wasn't exactly large, but it was more than enough to accommodate a moderately sized animal– larger if it really tried to wriggle through. Chet darted his head through, shining the flashlight out as well.

He twisted his shoulders to squeeze through the opening, feeling the tightness bruising his skin. Relieved, his shoulders finally shifted free, he'd be out in no time– when something inside of the store crashed down harshly against his calf. He yelped in fearful excitement, turning around to see what had pinned his leg down. Through the small space between his hip and the metal frame of the door, he could see rusted pet cages spilled across his lower half.

Chet pushed against the door, but the cages were apparently heavier than they seemed. "No! No, no, no!" He grunted through his teeth, trying to shake out of the hold, unaware of the thick pats and thuds that were growing nearer. Finally, the pile shifted, just enough pressure being lifted so that he could pull his aching legs through the opening.

It was only then the sounds of metal against metal were replaced with a low, nearby growl and dense clicks of nails against pavement. He slowly shined the flashlight to his right, blood running cold when he saw the demonic yellow eyes of the dog creature from before. It trotted closer into the light, growling deeper still, and it was obvious it had changed.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw the deep gash on the dog's underbelly writhed, splitting wide open as pus covered tendrils snaked out, rubbing against the ground. They all gravitated toward Chet, leaving sickening trails of slime as they crept forward. The dog's legs trembled and it raised its head proudly, howling shrilly into the darkness. The sound shocked Chet out of his blind terror, and before the dog could turn its attention back, the man was already striking.

Chet kicked at its neck, not bothering to finish off the job as he struggled to gain his footing while scrambling away. _'Damn thing feels heavier!'_ The streets were still empty, but when he came to a tripped up stop at the intersection of Katz Street and Neely Street, a single sedan was parked in front of a restaurant. The hood was partway open, as if someone had forgotten to close it fully, but Chet could see something sticking through the cracks.

Taking a chance, he pulled the hood up and smiled; an L-shaped tire iron had been left behind atop the burst radiator. He snatched it up, comforted by the heft of the metal in his hand. Chet spun the iron, watching as the dog had finally caught up to him, jowls parted as dark teeth clacked together roughly. He swung the tool as hard as he could, nearly falling off balance when the metal slammed against the dog's shoulder.

It yelped, falling over onto its side, but before it could get back up, Chet swung the iron again, cracking into the thick skull as dark blood sprayed out from the wounds. The creature shook violently, yelping in pain, but the beating didn't stop. Chet kept slamming the tire iron against its increasingly fragile skull as bits of bone began chipping away. With one last bit of strength, Chet let out an animalistic growl, bringing his heel down onto the dog's neck.

A final brittle crunch erupted from beneath his foot, and he grinned darkly at his kill.

Even before the thrill began to fade, Chet was on the move again, deciding to head west down Katz Street so he could finally get to the other side of the sinkhole in Nathan Avenue. He jogged ahead, using an out of place fence that ran the length of an apartment complex as a guide, trying his best not to get himself mixed up in the pitch darkness. Soon, he came to another intersection marked as 'Munson Street' and remembered the map in his pocket, picturing the roads in his mind.

By now, he was winded and slowed to a quick walk, wary as he passed a stairwell that lead to a lower street. Something at the end of the road caught his attention, though; a dim light flickered, struggling to cut through the shadows that pervaded the town. He slowed down, trying to catch his breath and slogging toward the light.

As he neared the next intersection, the light shone directly from his left. Chet marched across the street, stopping when a defunct sign came into view, towering over him. Faded letters– I-N-N, were the only markings on the simple stone arch. There was a large gate barring access into the parking lot, as was the doorway beside it. The next door lead into the front end of the inn, the lobby and booking office.

Chet entered the lobby, stepping over an overturned pamphlet kiosk of tourist info, following the same drill of scanning the new environment. The room was slightly smaller than he'd expected with plaster ceilings not much taller than he was. Dingy molding on the walls had begun to fail, cracking and pulling away from the wood beneath. With the tire iron held high in his right hand, and the flashlight in the other, he stepped behind the counter.

A small wooden rack lined with hooks was bolted to the wall, with only one key remaining. The dusty white tag on the key was labeled with '13'. Chet looked to the counter top, seeing only a dead potted plant and a small black book with a page protruding from the edge. Laying down his weapon, he flipped the leather bound book open to the slightly torn page. He scanned over the sheet, absentmindedly taking note of the list of guests. . . when he noticed one shared his last name.

'Valeria Seymour'.

His mother's name.

Could it have just been a coincidence? Chet wasn't convinced that it could have been.

He pocketed the key on the rack and stepped through the only other door in the room. He stepped outside into a covered walkway, once again on his guard. He studied the corridor, light dancing back and forth, tire iron at his side. The door next to him was pale yellow, dusty and grimy; the knob was tarnished and covered in cobwebs. Just beneath the peephole, the door was numbered– with reddish knife marks, messily forming the number '1'.

Chet slowly passed by the darkened window, entranced at the oxidized iron security bars embedded into the brick and mortar facade. The next room door was much like the first, the only difference being dirtier with the number '2' scrawled into the surface. The rest of the doors were virtually identical, so Chet paid little mind to them as he made his way to the thirteenth room.

_'This hallway is too damn long. . . .'_ Chet nervously glanced behind him, suddenly hyper aware of the soft echo of his own footsteps. The darkness of the hallway seemed long, unending, much larger than it could physically be. He knew that sounded silly, stupid even– only, it didn't. Not after the things he'd seen already.

Shaking off the unease, he finally came to the last door. . . pale yellow, like the others; filthy, like the others; but despite the similarities, this door was different. It was covered in hastily scribbled chalky X marks that cut through the grime, scratching at the paint. It seemed the marks surrounding the '13' carving were made by a stone. Something about the marks seemed familiar, but he couldn't be sure. Hell, he couldn't be sure about anything anymore.

Was this all just a nightmare? All just a delusion?

Nothing made sense. . . but that insinuated things had always made sense. . . now he wasn't sure they ever had.

He shook his head, his twisted philosophy would have to wait. He inserted the key into the lock, breath catching in his throat as the tumblers loudly clacked against themselves. The door dragged across the threshold and against a dirty shag carpet, requiring Chet to push against it much harder than he'd expected. The faintest hint of old blood wasn't even evident to him anymore as he stepped into the room, back against the wall as he made sure it was safe–

When he felt the door slip from his grip, splintering wood catching in his skin as the door slammed against the frame. The impact made the windows shutter and Chet's skin crawled from the sudden spook. His heart continued to hammer in his chest, though, as a distant sound once again filled the air. He grabbed the door handle, twisting to no avail. It was jammed.

He turned around to face the room as the shrill cry of the air raid siren once again pierced his ears. His chest heaved while he tried to keep his breathing calm, but began to falter when the dirty wall paper on the opposite side of the wall began to ripple, peeling away from the wooden wall; as the paper peeled away, a red stain appeared on the wood, dripping onto the carpet.

The stain spread, eventually revealed to be writing as messy as the X's on the door.

DEMON CHILD, EVIL CHILD. HE WHO HATH BEEN TAINTED, LIFE TAKER OF THE INNOCENT. HE WHO HATH BEEN BORN AFLAME, DEATH WILL COME AGAIN.

The shrill cry of the siren was now painful, his thoughts clouded from the intense pain. He dropped the flashlight and the tire iron, falling to his knees as he held his head in agony. He felt nauseous and tasted a creeping stench of bile that invaded his mouth when he noticed the room filling with smoke.

He was unable to move, like something held him against the grimy floor when he saw the ghostly blue flame lick up the wall. In an instant, the searing heat and crackling flames had surrounded him, doing little to actually light up the room. He felt his flesh tingle, tightening as the heat lapped against him, and in that moment, he was absolutely sure he was going to die.

The last thing he saw was a heavy wooden beam, ablaze in a dazzling shade of blue, break away from the ceiling.

Darkness came.


	5. Lifeless

Chapter 5

Lifeless

It was such a hot night. He hated the nights like this when the rain came late, but lasted just long enough to make the air feel thick and wet. He tossed his blanket aside, feeling a breeze come in through his open window and rubbed his eyes. Chet stretched with a quiet yawn as his feet hit the worn wooden floor. He walked across the empty room to the door which was shut. He'd always wanted more stuff in his room, like his friend Arron from school, but his momma always said the same thing; 'We can't afford it.'

Then she'd apologize and give Chet a big hug. He liked those hugs. Only he liked Arron's room better.

The sticky night air hadn't been what awoke him from his restless sleep, though. It was the quiet, scary noise that was coming from outside his room. Chet was scared to be alone in his room sometimes, but momma said it was good for a 'big boy'. That's what Chet was, he was a big boy because he was almost five! Which is why he was pushing the door open, looking out into the dark hallway that lacked any windows or working lights and quietly called out for his momma.

"Momma?" Silence. "Momma, are you and Papa okay?"

A floorboard creaked and he froze in place, fingernails scratching at the old wallpaper. In the moment of quiet, the sound came again; ghostly and muffled like a far away ghost who was mad or hurt. Like in the ghost stories Arron told him– even though momma didn't like him hearing stories like that. The only light was faint, coming from the living room, and then he smelled it.

The weird smell he remembered was blood. He remembered it smelled like the blood from when Arron got hurt by the car. Chet had never seen so much blood until then, didn't even know it was possible to have so much come out of a person. He hadn't seen Arron at all since it happened. He missed Arron– but the smell was so strong, someone had to be hurt, Chet reasoned.

"Momma! I'm comin'! I'm gonna help you!"

He sped down the hallway, yelping in pain when the splintering floorboards pricked at his feet. Momma would be mad because he wasn't wearing his shoes, but he was too scared to be worried about getting in trouble. When he finally stepped through the doorway, he stopped running, instead fixated on the blood-covered bed sheet that was near the table. He was happy though because momma was fine, she was sitting in the floor reading her bible.

Or, wait. That wasn't a bible. . . and now that he thought about it, that didn't look like momma at all.

The woman in the floor dropped her book and instead grabbed the candle at her feet, her gaze still downcast. She slowly raised her head, revealing dark red skin that was mottled and torn with a ragged smile and wet hair. She tilted her head aside and laughed, a deep bellowing laugh that echoed in the room. She stopped suddenly, hollow eyes staring through him.

"I'M NOT YOUR GODDAMN MOTHER."

Chet jolted upright, gasping for air. He scrambled to his hands and knees, scurrying toward the wall, blind with fear. He fell against the wall with a sob, pulling his knees to his chest, wailing with fear and agony. He slammed his head back against the wall before looking toward the water stained ceiling, tears streaming from his eyes. Biting his lips, he breathed slowly, deliberately, in a vain attempt to calm himself.

Suddenly, he remembered where he was. It was the motel. Then he remembered why he was there. He still hadn't found Karin. Then. . . hadn't the place caught fire? Or was that just his imagination? With tears still streaming down his cheeks, he cursed again. "Am I just crazy?" He choked out, staring at the dirty window with pale light filtering in.

_'Wait. . . .'_ He thought. _'I'm not just here because of Karin.'_ The guestbook had his mother's name listed. She'd been in this room before. Why had she come to Silent Hill, he wondered. It was something he was sure was linked with the note she left him. Chet wiped the tears from his face and felt for his flashlight and crowbar on the musty shag carpeting and pulled them both up. It was brighter now, so he pocketed the light to conserve battery life.

The room was smaller than he expected with one queen-sized bed shoved into a corner. Most of the padding of the mattress had been either worn away or removed, showing the rusted and corroded metal springs that seemed to have a story of their own to tell. The end table was collecting dust, the drawer long since been removed. A semicircular breakfast table was up against the wall beside an old television set, and on top of the table was a piece of paper.

A silver weight was keeping the page on the table and flattened out; the paper had three folds in it, and at the top was the remnant of a wax seal. It was a letter. Chet plucked it up and began to read the short passage on it.

_'Just like that woman said all those years ago, he's afflicted. I don't know if it's demonic possession or if he's just disturbed, because God knows how simply horrific that is._

_ Make no mistake, she butchered her life and knew it full well. That's why she asked me_

_ to hold onto something for her. That something is Aglaophotis. I don't know how, or why she obtained it, but I swore to her I'd keep it in my safe place. Of course, she never held up her end of the bargain, but I was expecting that. Alas, I may get something out of this after all._

_ He'll show up when the time is right, but that time is far from near. May God have mercy _

_ on his damned soul._

_ V. Smith'_

The letter seemed to be talking about his mother, but if that were true. . . then it mentioned him as well– and he sure as hell didn't like what it was implying. It was void of an address or any specific names, and apart from some vague elaborations, it seemed useless. He sighed, folding it up and shoving it in his pocket. He felt the smooth contour of the health drink, and grabbed it, breaking the seal as he unscrewed the lid. He took a sip and nearly vomited at the bittersweet-chemical taste of the fluid, but he swallowed the pungent sip before downing the rest.

He tossed the empty bottle aside and left the motel room without a second thought.

Chet walked slowly, studying the wrinkled map in his hands intently. If Karin was still looking for her friend, he knew that she would have made her way north to Central Silent Hill. Without a working vehicle of some sort, the walk would take a while, possibly even a few hours. But Chet was determined he'd find the two women. . . and besides, from what he could tell, there were no alternative options.

He folded the paper back up, leaving the motel behind as he pondered why his mother would have ever come to the town. Better yet, he thought, had it always been so empty? The man sighed, trudging along the sidewalk, ignoring the dull ache that gripped his body. He purposely ignored most of the buildings that he passed as most were boarded up and completely empty, but through the mist, he could see something looming near.

The ground began to show more wear, covered in tire tread marks and oil stains as the first gas pump faded into view. He stopped, leaning against the pump as the burning pain in his calf muscles began to subside. The metal fixture groaned in protest, but he didn't care as he pushed away, filled with a frigid sense of dread as he caught the digits on the price read out;

$6.66

Just then, swift movement caught his eye from behind the filthy store window that was covered in old tacky logos and burned out neon signs. Something deep in his stomach nagged at him, imploring him to turn away. . . but curiosity had taken over. All intuition was cast aside.

He was going in.

The swinging door slowly opened, sliding deftly over an old floor mat. The shelves were mostly empty, with what little merchandise present being strewn over the dusty floor. Weapon in hand, he gazed around the room, realizing it seemed much smaller from the outside. He stepped around the first shelf, realizing the rest were all overturned and broken–

and then movement caught his eye again.

He edged around the mess and into a small hallway that lead to a utility closet at the end and to his right was a metal door, slightly ajar. Chet flicked on the flashlight, jamming it into the small space, carefully wedging the heavy door open wider when the creeping faint stench of rot and decay wafted out. "Must be a cooler." He said, hardly even whisper quiet. The thick walls allowed a heavy, tomb-like atmosphere to permeate the silence.

Something behind him fell softly to the floor, yet the quiet sound was nearly enough to send him into a blind panic. He jerked his head around, aiming the flashlight at the source of the sound, relieved that it was only an old, rusty soup can that rolled into his shoe, finally coming to a rest. The lid had been partially removed, as if the contents had been drained, but it wasn't anything special. _'Just a piece o'junk.'_

He kicked the can away and it clattered across the floor, knocking into the only other object in the room; an industrial sized, top loading freezer unit coated in a lifetime's worth of rust. The heavy door on top sat ajar slightly, and if Chet hadn't taken a closer look at the freezer, he'd have missed that fact entirely. At the corner was a small red scrap of paper, wedged inside of the freezer. Chet tugged on it, surprised that it didn't budge or rip. He pulled on it again, sighing.

Hooking his fingers on the underside of the door, he lifted. The hinges ground against each other, screaming in defiance as rusty metal flaked away. He heaved again, lifting with all of his strength, ignoring the growing pressure in his lower back. With a screech, the door flew open, nearly tearing away from the main body when it slammed into the wall behind.

The sound echoed in his ears, but he was frozen in place, a deep, sickened, twisted sensation slamming into his gut as the urge to vomit became overwhelming. The inside of the door was ablaze with the brilliant red of fresh blood, intermixed with vibrant splotches of scratched steel, but the real horror was just inches below.

The freezer was filled with the fleshy, rotting remnants of entrails and body parts that he prayed to any God didn't belong to a person. The pale hues of decaying flesh had given way to disgusting shades of piss yellow and infectious green and the pale ochre of dead maggots. Above all, the wicked stench of death proved to be the tipping point. In a fit of outrage, he grabbed the door and yanked it down to cover the site– but it didn't move in the slightest bit. He tried again as sweat dripped down his cheeks in a slow, steady rhythm.

The door wasn't going anywhere. He cursed, backing away from the horrific display when the center of the mass shifted. A dislodged slab of old flesh slipped out, slapping against the smooth concrete floor of the room. By now, all Chet wanted to do was run, run away and not look back, but before he could even haul himself to his feet to get away from whatever-the-hell-it-was, the contents of the freezer seemed to explode.

Gore rained over the room, spilling at his feet as the commotion came to an abrupt end.

Chet backed into the door, trembling hands trying to find a grip on the smooth metal when something else caught his eye, and by now survival mode had completely taken over. In the freezer a small pad of blood-soaked flesh bobbed up from inside. The thing slowly rose, the thick and stocky limbs of what looked like a man bound behind its grotesque back. It was tall, much taller than Chet himself, but it was bent at an awkward angle at the waist. The head was still obscured as it was facing away from Chet, but when it came to a stop, it slowly craned its neck around.

The head was totally obscured by a thick, luteous green liquid that oozed from serpentine-like tendrils that encircled the head. Chet latched onto the tire iron, brandishing it as a sword when without warning, the thing hurled itself forward. It slammed onto the floor and kicked forward with its muscular legs, slamming against Chet before he could react. The creature hauled its massive body atop Chet, howling like the cries of a mother in mourning, and the tendrils shook rapidly, peeling away from the center of the head to reveal a mouth full of needle-like teeth.

Chet wedged the tire iron between himself and the creature in an attempt to keep the thing from taking a bite out of him. The weight of the thing was making it difficult to breathe, and as the seconds ticked by, he felt the world fading from view. Another rush of adrenaline kicked in, and with a grunt, he pushed the monster aside. He scrambled across the floor, sliding around in the thick mess of blood, but eventually pulled himself to his feet.

The monster pushed up against the door, slamming it closed as it shakily stood. Chet hollered out, sprinting over the gore, tire iron raised high. "FUCKIN' DIE, YOU ABOMINATION!" He shoved the makeshift weapon forward like a spear and it dug deep into the back of the monster. It cried out in anguish, slinging its head around. It slammed into Chet like a wrecking ball, sending him into the glass display windows of the room.

The tire iron was still implanted in its back as it lumbered forward, taking deep, ragged breaths as blood gurgled from its mouth, mixing with the green liquid from the tendrils. Chet sprang from the wall, leaping into the air. He collided with the monster and they both crashed against the metal wall, a sickening suction noise erupting as the tire iron ripped all the way through the creature, cracking bone and rupturing blood vessels before finally tearing through the skin.

Chet rolled the dying creature over, grasping the base of the tire iron, tugging it free. With a manic grin, he slammed the weapon against the creature's head and again as he yelled out curses, trembling from the whole ordeal. He finally stopped, eyes wide as his chest heaved in and out. He wanted to leave. Snatching the red paper up from the floor, he left the room without hesitation, dazed from the sudden attack.

He stepped outside, wincing as the outside light filled his eyes, proving to be a huge contrast to the near perfect darkness inside the cooler. It took a few moments for him to collect his thoughts and regain what little of his composure was left. He trembled, shaking his head as he tried not to think too much about what was going on. And what was the point, anyway? None of it made sense. None of it would EVER make sense, and he left it at that, holding the red piece of paper up to observe it.

It was blank. "'Course it's blank. Why not?" He crumpled it in his hand, tossing it aside, chiding himself once more for needlessly risking his life.

Chet solemnly stared down the misty road as the cold sweat engulfed his hands. If he didn't find Karin soon. . . he knew what to expect. _'Tough shit. She shouldn't have left me. If I don't find her soon, then forget it. I'm outta here.'_ The thought was cold but practical. There was no reason for him to feel like that girl he didn't even know was his responsibility. . . but it went against all humanity to just leave her to die.

He began a slow walk down the road, body aching from exhaustion. It'd be a long walk to Central Silent Hill. . . considering he even made it that far.


End file.
